


Thorn

by Owlix



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Empurata, Friendship, Gen, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, psychosocial effects of empurata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2504987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rung pulls a thorn from a lion's paw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galena/gifts).



> Written for Galena. Because Galena is the bestest.

Swerve’s bar buzzed with post-battle energy and noise. The crew was still on a kind of energy high after the fight; engines still running hot, processors quick, sparks pulsing and optics over-bright. Half of the crowd was drunk, and the rest were getting there.

Rung slipped through them unnoticed, drink in hand. He’d been off-shift during the battle -- recharging in his room -- and no one had thought to wake him. Fair enough. To be honest, he was glad to avoid the violence. Casualties had been nil, and injuries minor. A complete and utter victory. Hence the celebration. The atmosphere of the bar was entirely positive, a group of crewmates all joined by common cause and common victory.

Well, almost entirely positive.

A commotion was stirring on the far side of the bar. A harsh voice cut through the white-noise of conversations and song. A voice Rung recognized, matching a pair of blue flight stabilizers that peeked up over the crowd.

Whirl. Arguing with Swerve, apparently. Rung fine-tuned his audio receptors to catch their conversation.

“You’re leaking fuel on my floor,” Swerve said.

“Tough slag. I guess you’re gonna have to clean it up.” Whirl, smug with the satisfaction of causing someone else discomfort, and pleased with the attention that it brought him. “Aren’t you used to cleaning up after people?”

Swerve made a face. “Shouldn’t you be in the medbay or something?”

“Pfft,” Whirl synthesized, obnoxiously loud. “This is nothing. I’m fine.”

It wasn’t technically untrue; Whirl had no serious injuries that Rung could see. But it wasn’t exactly accurate either. He _had_ been treated. Rung could see the welds - the bare minimum to stop most of the fuel spillage - but very few other mechs would’ve been allowed to leave the medbay in that condition. Whirl was treated differently. The medical staff got him out as quick as they could manage, even if that meant he’d go on to leak fuel on someone else’s floor.

Swerve’s expression changed as he considered various arguments, then decided not to bother. When someone called him over, he turned and left Whirl to his slowly growing puddle and his empty table.

Whirl went back to doing whatever he’d been occupied with before the interruption. Rung expected bar tricks, or his usual misbehavior, but…

Whirl’s right rotor spun and shut off and spun again, an expression of frustration. His left one didn’t move at all. Whirl shoved one tip of his claw into the gap between rotors and the rotor well, dug it around, then pulled it out. His right rotor spun again. The left one remained stationary, although Rung could see the rotor well casing that made up much of Whirl’s forearm rattling even from here. Whirl's optic narrowed in concentration. His right rotor spun faster. Something inside the engine of his left started smoking. A few people turned towards the smell and grimaced.

Swerve passed by, holding a tray of other peoples’ drinks. “What’s wrong, Whirl?” he asked, grinning. “Need a _hand_?” He laughed at his own bad joke. Rung tried not to wince - he knew exactly why Swerve said the things he did, but that didn’t make his casual mockery of Whirl’s condition easier for him to tolerate.

“Got something jammed in here,” Whirl muttered. He shook his left forearm in Swerve’s direction. “Can’t get it out.” Not with those awkward claws.

Swerve took an uneasy step back. “Ohh no. I’m not putting my hand in _there_.”

Rung could see why. Whirl’s rotors were sharp and incredibly powerful. A spinning death trap.

Whirl stared at Swerve for a moment, expression unreadable. He abruptly, loudly spun his working right rotor. Swerve stumbled backwards and nearly spilled one of his drinks. Muttering to himself, he disappeared into the crowd.

Whirl continued trying to pry the metal out. His claws were too broad and curved to fit. The arc was wrong. He couldn’t get both claw tips in at once, and because of that, he couldn’t get a grip on whatever it was that was jammed in among the blades. It was futile -- the physics were all wrong. And if Rung could see that, Whirl certainly could. But he kept trying anyway, applying more and more force.

Swerve’s commentary and the smoke that slowly rose from Whirl’s rotor had gathered some attention. People started staring. They could clearly see what help Whirl needed, but none of them offered it. The more they stared, the more Whirl made his struggles obvious. If they wouldn’t look at him, he’d force them to look. He’d make a spectacle of himself before he’d allow them to avert their eyes. Being disgusting and offensive was better than being _ignored_ , and he wasn’t going to hide his damage for the sake of their comfort.

Whirl dug at the rotor. The outside of the rotor well bent from the force -- a sickening sound. More people stared.

Rung finished his drink, put it down, and made his way unnoticed through the crowd.

“Whirl,” he said, gently. He put a hand on Whirl’s shoulder.

Whirl’s battle protocols snapped on -- Rung could see it in the way his optic focused, could hear it in the way Whirl’s guns ratcheted into firing position -- and then shut off again just as abruptly.

Rung smiled. “Let me help?”

Whirl made one last showy attempt to dig the obstruction out of his rotor before holding his forearm out in Rung’s direction. He nodded, faintly.

If Whirl’s struggles had gained him an audience, Rung’s participation had only cemented it. They were rapt, now, staring wide-opticed and holding their breath. _Rung wasn’t really going to do it, was he?_ Rung inhaled and lowered a hand into the path of the blades and started working the obstruction loose, and the crowd held their breath. _He was._

It was some kind of metal shard, and it was well and truly jammed. No doubt Whirl’s attempts to brute-force a solution had only made it worse. This wouldn’t be a quick thing, especially not for someone of his own limited strength. Rung would need both hands for this. He lowered the second one in and went to work, prying at the metal shard. It was a piece of someone else’s armor, he realized. It was still wet with someone else’s fuel.

Rung steeled himself and reached in deeper. He’d lose both arms at the forearm if Whirl forced his rotors into a spin now.

But it was worth the risk. Because this _was_ a risk. It wasn’t trust. It was faith -- unfounded and unearned. But the cost of failure was worth the attempt.

Rung pulled and wrenched, two-handed. The piece came loose. Rung heard Whirl’s rotors start up, flight engine whining, and he knew he couldn’t pull his arms free fast enough. He braced himself, and--

 _Tap_. One of Whirl’s rotors hit Rung’s forearm as it spun ridiculously slow. It reversed its spin, turning slowly the other way. _Tap_.

“I think you got it,” Whirl said. “Get your hands outta there so I can check.”

Rung stared, frozen, for a long moment. He slowly pulled his forearms out, still gripping the shard of armored plate. Rotors spun fast enough to shred limbs, and Rung felt the air pulled away from his face and bounced back up at him when it hit the floor.

The audience that Rung had forgotten about exhaled, surprised and maybe even a little disappointed, and slowly dissipated. Whirl laughed -- a poorly-synthesized cackling -- and spun both rotors faster, knocking over drinks and rattling empty chairs.

Rung looked down at the piece of someone else’s armor that he still held in one hand. He sat down heavy, head spinning with relief and giddy with the lightness of faith, rewarded.


End file.
